CasfB 


UND&  MDPEE 


Linda  Rider 


Series  of  First  Volumes y  Number  Three 


Orioles  &  Blackbirds 


ORIOLES  6° 
BLACKBIRDS 

HI    SIlylONS 


CHICAGO  -"WILL  RANSOM. -MCMXXII 


For  reproduction  herein  of  poems  previously  pub- 
lished in  their  pages,  grateful  acknowledgement  is  due 
the  editors  of  Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  The 
Liberator,  The  Wave,  The  Pagan,  Unity,  The 
Plowshare,  Good  Morning,  The  Modern  Review, 
All 's  Well,  and  Caprice. 


Copyright  1922  by  Will  Ransom 


Epistle  Dedicatory 

Dear  Bernadine — 

None  you  disliked  is  among  these. 
Hi 


CONTENTS 

Three  Crimson  Tulips 

Shermerville  Road  p 

Three  Lines  10 

Remembering  One  Night  77 

Cubes  and  Colored  Curves 

Portrait  of  an  Old  Roue  75 

Open  Window  j6 

Decoration:  Ships  Going  Out  77 

Autumn^  Lake  Eemidji  18 

October  Sunset  79 

Green  20 

Sleep  22 

Waters  23 

Berries  24 

Scintillations  25 

Moonset  26 

My  Mind  27 

Of  Helen  28 

Eternally  29 

Going  to  Sleep  30 

Tree  jf 

The  Versifier  32 

Holiday  Air  jj 

Lovers  in  the  Dark  34 

Male  Remark  to  the  Spring  Wind  jj 


The  Black  Uniform 

Chant  of  the  Shoveler  jp 

Singers  42 

Nightfall  in  Prison  46 

A  Tree  by  the  Road  47 

A  Rose  48 

The  Star  50 

Dust  in  the  Road  51 

Taps  52 

There  are  Moments  of  Release  5J 

There  will  be  Days  of  Love  Released  54 

Near  Freedom  56 

En  Route 

The  Pebble  and  the  Wave  59 

When  the  Moon  Pales  60 

Mother  and  Daughter  61 

Legend  62 

The  Moustache  64 

To  a  Timid  Maiden  65 

The  Fable  of  the  Hog  66 

Conscription  67 

The  Fireman  68 

En  Route  70 


Three  Crimson  Tulips 


Shermerville  Road 

Leaves  live  by  night 
more  delicately  than  they 
can  live  when  light 
of  day 

effaces  subtleties. 
Elm-leaves  on  an  immobile  tree — 
beside  a  road  that  no  unhatted  fool  but  me 
would  plod,  alone, 
past  moonset  — 
flitter  and  swarm, 
like  bees, 
and  drone. 
Yet- 
rather  the  warm, 
unworded  flow  of  air  you  breathe 
I  'd  hear  beside  me, 
than  murmuring  hives  of  leaves 
upon  a  tree. 


Three  Lines 

Moon,  is  it  just  because  so  woman-pale  and 

woman-slim  you  hover 
Over  the  orchard  while  the  robust  sun  sways 

lakeward  into  cover, 
That  merely  glance  of  you  impels  to  thoughts 

of  Bernadine,  my  lover? 


10 


Remembering  One  Night 

I  would  divest  you  of  soft  things, 
Unswathe  you  of  the  grey  and  faint-pink 

swathings 

In  which  you  're  wound, 
Wherewith  you  're  bound. 

I  would  twine  curled  brown  leaves  into  your  hair 
And  girdle  you  with  moss. 
I  would  sing  to  your  naked  dancing  on  a 

moon-blue  hill  of  sand. 


li 


Cubes  &  Colored  Curves 


Portrait  of  an  Old  Roue 

The  seeds  of  his  sin 

Thrust  tiny  red  roots 

Among  the  cell-crevices  of  his  face. 

Now  their  minute  purple  tendrils 

Trace,  on  his  cheeks  and  nose, 

Vine-patterns  as  intricately  beautiful 

As  his  fastidious  iniquities. 


Open  Window 

That  the  night  may  pass  with  beauty, 

Leave  the  white  bed  forsaken; 

Come  in  your  slender  nudity 

And  watch  with  me  the  slow  stars  carve 

Their  fret  of  silver  arcs  on  indigo: 

Oh !  tranquilize  your  passion, 

That  the  night  may  pass  with  beauty. 


16 


Decoration:   Ships  Going  Out 

Slow  shuttles  weave  — 

weave  into  the  night — 

weave  on  warp  of  sky-blue,  cloud- white  — 

weave  heavy  yarn  of  purple  ship-smoke: 

strands  of  sky-blue, 

cloud-white  wisps 

skeins  of  mulberry  ship-smoke  weave 

heliotrope  horizon. 

Sea-fingers  spin  — 
spin  blue  water  into  green  — 
gold-brown  out  of  green: 
slow-spinning  sea-fingers 
draw  threads  from  sky, 
threads  from  shore-shadows — 
spin  grape-color  and  silver' 
out  of  sky  and  shore-shadows. 

Slender  sea-fingers  spin  green  and  burn  orange, 

silver  and  purple  together. 

Slow  shuttles  weave  mulberry  ship-smoke 

into  a  heliotrope  horizon  — 

weave  into  night. 


Autumn,  Lake  Eemidji 

No  more,  in  the  cedar-swamp, 

The  red  chevrons  on  the  blackbird's  wing 

Are  wind-swayed  up  and  down 

In  unison  with  the  highbush-cranberry  clusters, 

Scarlet  with  frost-bite. 

With  many  an  affrighted  signal-call 

The  mottle-bosomed  yellow-hammer 

Has  fled  the  dusty  jackpine  copse. 

Now  a  slate-colored  heron 

Flaps  out  of  the  sallow  sedges 

And  steers  southward 

Over  the  grey  waves  and  the  broken  brown  reeds, 

Trailing  its  legs  like  the  rudder  of  a  canoe. 


18 


October  Sunset 

Clouds  like  swans 
with  orchid-colored  plumes 
glide  upon  jade  water: 
magenta-bellied  gulls — 
gold  wings,  flamingo- tipped — 
hover  in  cold  purple  heights. 


Green 

Field-green, 

Indigo  blended  with  a  little  canary  yellow; 

Blue-green 

Like  the  lush  leaves  of  the  marigold; 

Broad  level  meadow  of  sprouting  wheat 

Intense  green 

With  a  shimmering  sheen, 

Like  a  velvet  portierre 

In  a  walnut-raftered  room. 

Tree-green, 

Cobalt-blue  wedded  to  maize  yellow 

Then  sprinkled  with  honey-powder; 

Sunny-green 

Like  morning  light  on  a  great  water; 

Sex-green,  , 

Yellow  pollen  bursting  from  the  soft  womb  of 

the  pod — 

Breast-buds  of  a  passionate  virgin 
Eager  for  the  press  of  a  mature  athletic  man. 


Bud-green, 

Drops  of  light  blue  blurred  into  a  matt  of 

water-color  yellow; 
April  green 
Of  first  buds  flowering  on  the  boughs  of  poplar 

trees; 

Faint  yellow-green, 
The  single  fringe  of  trees  along  the  curving 

shore 

Making  delicate  traceries 
Against  the  mists  of  the  river 
Like  an  embroidered  sylvan  scene 
In  old,  old  lace. 


21 


Sleep 

Thoughts  flare  and  flicker  in  my  mind 
Like  a  host  of  little  candles  in  a  great  dark 

chamber    .    .    . 
Now  some  unseen  one  enters 
And  snuffs  out  the  flames, 
One  by  one    .    .    . 


22 


Waters 

Out  of  the  yellow-tamarack  morass 
The  olive-colored  water  of  the  river 
Flows  into  the  round  basin  of  the  lake 
Tawny  muscles  of  a  sunburnt  arm 
Pressing  against  the  resilience 
Of  a  white  breast. 


Berries 

Midsummer  in  the  North-country 
Parched  bushes  in  the  stumpy  fields  where 

cool  forests  were 

And,  under  the  shady  leaves  of  a  low  shrub, 
Blueberries, 

Like  clusters  of  little  blue  moons 
Under  the  foliage  of  night. 


Scintillations 

The  moon  drips  a  purple  oil 

Upon  the  undulating  surface  of  the  lake. 

Out  from  the  tremulous,  olive-drab  shadow  of 

the  pier, 

Darts  a  green-backed  water  beetle; 
It  cuts  a  zig-zag  lightning  track  across  the 

lambent  phosphorescence, 
Then  vanishes  into  the  rolling  black  waste    .    . 
So  desire  comes  into  her  eyes,  and  is  gone. 


Moonset 

All  the  long  evening 

The  hot  yellow  moon 

Kept  slipping  toward  the  house-tops  — 

Slipping,  slipping,  slipping— 

Until,  when  a  faraway  churchbell 

Struck  just  once, 

It  fell  into  a  tall  black  chimney. 

Then  a  wind  came  out  of  the  west 

And  blew  all  the  heat  away. 


26 


My  Mind 

An  indigent  old  woman 
Fingers  trinkets  and  remnants 
Over  a  bargain-counter 
And  then  moves  on 
Without  purchasing. 


Of  Helen 

Come,  amorous  thoughts! 

Now  that  the  straight,  sharp-angled 

imperatives  of  work  are  laid  aside, 
Fill  my  mind  with  visions  of  her, 
Like  little  golden  goddesses 
Gleaming  all  adown  a  long  black  corridor! 
Occupy  every  niche  of  my  soul 
With  her  fine-metalled  image, 
That  I  may  adulate,  unreservedly. 


28 


Eternally 

Timorously  wavering, 

An  ephemeral  splendour  like  a  butterfly's 

wing  in  sunlight, 

The  little  yellow  flame  creeps  down  the  taper 
Into  the  deep  cup  of  the  candlestick  .   .   . 
It  is  blue  like  a  breath  of  noon-cloud   .   .   . 
It  is  a  red  cinder  in  the  black  of  a  forest  camp. 

4 

Die,  small  light!  Vanish  utterly: 

I  shall  remain  in  this  night-dungeoned  corner, 

Loving  her. 


Going  to  Sleep 

Lovely  thoughts  came,  silent,  through  the  night 

And  led  me  on  from  scene  to  happy  scene 

Until  at  last  they  drew  their  glowing  tapering  arms 

From  the  numbing  clasp  of  my  mind, 

And  abandoned  me 

To  the  passionless  placidity  of  Sleep, 

Dull  spouse,  and  swollen-eyed,  of  Weariness. 


Tree 

There  is  a  lemon-colored  elmtree  near  the  road. 
Autumn  has  yellowed  its  periphery  of  leaves 
But  the  inner  foliage  remains  untouched  by  frost, 
Pea-green, 


The  Versifier 

I  take  words — 

Thin,  delicately  moulded  strips  of  speech — 

And  join  them  end  to  end 

Cunningly,  so  that  the  pattern  is  unbroken, 

And  so  make  a  frame 

For  an  exquisite  thought. 


Holiday  Air 

He  stands  on  the  cold  curb,  whistling. 
Pizzicato  puffs  of  blue  breath 
Issue  on  the  slow  winter  wind — 
Dots  and  dashes  of  melody 
On  an  invisible  piano-roll. 


33 


Lovers  in  the  Dark 

A  spark  blown  from  a  cigarette 

Fades  into  ash 

Like  a  flake  of  snow 

That  melts  before  alighting    .    . 

They  kiss. 


34 


Male  Remark  to  the  Spring  Wind 

Silk  legs  — 

because  of  their  accustomedness, 

thirty  above  zero  or  below — 

do  not  disturb. 

But,  oh! 

why  orange  bloomers, 

why  the  obscene  press 

of  skirts  on  thighs, 

why  garters  — 

intriguing  rags: 

are  they  merely  to  torment 

the  effort  to  be  continent? 


35 


The  Black  Uniform 


Chant  of  the  Shoveler 

I  am  the  shoveler. 

I'm  the  young  fellow  who  stands  all  day 

On  the  feeding-platform  in  the  brick  plant 

Pushing  great  shovelsful  of  clay 

Into  the  champing  maw  of  the  crushing-machine, 

With  rhythmic  vigorous  slide  and  pull  of  muscles 

Shoving  chunks  of  hard  dirt  into  the  machine. 

/  was  the  sleek  young  gentleman  of  the  cities. 
Inhabitant  of  drives  and  boulevards , 
Frequenter  of  tearooms  where  rich  women  went 

to  smoke  their  Russian  cigarets  uncensoredy 
Of  suave  hotels,  of  cafes  where  the  laughers  and 

the  dancers  played: 

I  was  the  well-dressed  young  prof  essional  man, 
Flipping  a  slim  slick  walking-cane, 
Twisting  waxed  ends  of  a  little  brown  mustache. 
Hatted  and  gloved  and  gaitered  to  the  letter  of 

style  and  taste. 


39 


See  me  now— 

As  the  shoveler! 

Stooping  to  the  rough  task,  clad  in  boots  and 

overalls, 
Dirty  overalls,  bagging  over  the  gumboot 

tops,  sagging  loosely  over  my  hips, 
Arms  bare  to  the  shoulders,  overshirt  cast  aside, 
Bare-headed,  bound  with  a  blue  handkerchief 

like  a  fillet 
To  hold  my  straggling  hair  and  stay  the 

trickling  sweat. 
See  me  now — 
Working  callouses  on  my  palms  and  the  edges 

of  my  fingers, 

Joyous  in  the  strain  and  pull  of  muscles, 
In  the  swing  and  toss  of  the  shovel. 

I  was  the  prison  greenhorn; 

I  was  the  man  who  quailed  as  they  marched 

me  to  work. 

And  cringed  as  a  weakling 
In  the  first  days  of  my  toil. 


40 


Watch  me  now — 

I  am  the  shovel  er! 

I  am  the  fellow  who  does  more  work  than  any 

of  my  comrades, 
Scorning  the  barrow-pushers  who  lag  in  their 

weakness. 

I  am  the  fellow  who  feeds  the  roaring  machine 
With  back  bended  for  hours  at  a  stretch, 
Scooping  up  the  clay,  bare-handed — 
With  legs  broadly  braced  and  flexing, 
Shovel  shooting  out  straight  from  the  shoulders — 
Then  flinging  it  into  the  hopper  with  a 

vigorous  controlled  jerk. 
I  am  the  deep-breathing  laborer, 
Digesting  big  meals  of  coarse  food, 
Tanning,  strengthening,  growing,  toughening 

every  body-fibre. 

I  am  the  man  who  shouts  in  exultation  of  the  toil. 
I  am  the  fellow  who  loudly  sings  above  the 

din  and  the  dust 
To  the  accompaniment  of  the  clanging 

thousand-pound  crushing- wheels  I 
I  am  the  shoveler! 
I  am  the  lover  of  work! 


Singers 

Soldiers  sing  and  prisoners  sing 

And  I  think  the  sweetest  songs  I  Ve  ever  heard 

are  those  sung  in  camps  and  prisons 

and  the  places  of  the  oppressed 
And  I  say  the  common  music  of  their  songs  is 

more  stirring,  more  inspiring,  than  any 

I  Ve  heard  in  churches. 

Quarantine  on  the  barracks  .    .    . 

One  red  coal  of  sunset  burning  in  an  ash-grey 

sky  that  envelopes  wooded  hills — heaps 

of  black  cinders: 
Dark  outside;  dusk  within — 
Only  the  scarlet  glow  from  a  huge  open  stove, 
And  on  the  bunks  lying,  close  together,  arms 

around  each  other, 
Soldiers,  boyish  soldiers,  looking  into  the 

ruddy  blast  of  the  fire,  and  singing — 
Singing  When  It's  Apple  Blossom  Time  in 

Normandy,  Annie  Laurie^  and  The 

Trail  of  the  Lonesome  Pine. 


And  at  last,  late  in  the  night,  one  lad 
Singing  for  the  others,  /  Love  You  Truly, 

Truly  y  Dear— 
Tears  sparkling  on  the  faces  in  the 

emberglow   .    .    . 
Lonely  soldiers,  singing,  in  the  night. 

Three-day  blizzard  careening  down  the 

Missouri  Valley — 
Lashing  snow  and  malicious  cold  into  the 

prison  quarries: 
Even  the  guards  retreat   .    .    . 
Into  the  tin-roofed  shack  of  rough  plank  they 

go,  prisoners  and  sentries  together. 
And  there,  crowding  on  the  dirty  benches 

around  the  little  stove,  they  sit  all  day, 

singing- 
Singing  There's  a  Long,  Long  Trail 

A-Windingy  Over  There ,  and  other 

songs  of  their  comrades  in  the  trenches. 
Prisoners  singing  in  the  shack  all  the  howling 

day   .    .    . 


43 


Outside  you  could  have  heard  their  manly 
voices  rising  in  full  chords  when  the 
blizzard  lulled  .  ,  , 

Winter  night  in  the  prison   .    .    . 

Down  to  the  locked-cell  basement 

Shuffles  Eleven-seven-forty-eight: 

A  colored  boy — an  eight-year  man — 

Shuffles  down  after  his  twelve  hours  on  the  gang, 

Is  locked  in  his  cell,  and  lies  there  singing — 

Singing  darky  blues — 

Oy  take  me  back,  sweet  wo-o-man; 

Oy  try  me  one  mo9  time. 
Ah  know  Ah  done  yo'  dirty, 

But  'twant  no  hangin'  crime. 

Singing  blues  in  a  mournful  soprano  moan 
Quavering  down  the  half-lit  basement  corridor. 

There's  a  "wobbly"  in  the  hole: 

He  "bucked"  today — refused  to  work: 

Fourteen  days  in  solitaire  .    .    . 


44 


Two  stories  above  the  basement  where  he  lies 
His  comrades  gather  in  an  open  cell  and  stand 

singing— 
Singing  wobbly  songs,  songs  of  the  reds.  The 

Marseillaise,  The  Internationale — 
Singing  into  the  ventilator  that  carries  the 

song  to  the  hole: 

Then  raise  the  scarlet  standard  high! 
Beneath  its  folds  we '//  live  and  die. 
Though  cowards  flinch  and  traitors  sneer , 
We  'II  keep  the  Red  Flag  fly  ing  here!— 

Prisoners  singing  hymns  of  liberty 
That  resound  through  air-shafts  into  every 
wing  of  the  prison. 

Songs  of  freedom 

Songs  of  love 

Songs  of  prisoners  and  soldiers  .    .    . 

And  I  say  that  young  men  who  are  pent  up 

and  oppressed  with  yearning 
Are  the  best  of  all  singers. 


45 


Nightfall  in  Prison 

When  the  velvet  folds  of  the  twilight-curtain 

descend 

On  the  gold-and-pink  embellishments  of  day, 
And  in  town  the  westward-looking  cottages — 
Yellow,  green  and  blue  and  white — 
Stand  in  the  dimming  rays  of  sunset; 
When  in  the  wild  the  purple  pools  of  shadow 
Over-rise  their  rugged  shores 
And  flow  and  flood  with  dewy  dusk 
The  field,  the  grove,  the  hill  — 
Think  then 
Of  a  single  tinted  feather  from  the  pinion  of 

day's  flight 

Fluttering  over  a  distant  hill, 
Clutched  at,  in  its  fall,  from  a  grated  window; 
And  of  cells  within 
Where  shadows  of  bars  lie  like  dead  days  in 

the  tombs  of  time 

Till  darkness  falls,  in  silent  heavy-heaping  clods, 
Burying  all. 


A  Tree  by  the  Road 

The  Hawthorne  tree 

On  the  roadside  near  the  prison 

Is  like  a  pensive  lady  of  gentle  birth; 

And  in  the  evening 

When  we  march  in  from  work 

Its  dark  leaves,  lighter  green  at  the  ends- 

Like  the  tips  of  slender,  soft  fingers — 

Reach  down 

As  if  offering  caresses, 

Languidly, 

Knowing  they  cannot  touch  her  lover. 


47 


A  Rose 

Pink  petals  of  rose: 

Bloom. 

You  will  share  this  prison-cell  with  me, 

You  in  your  tincup  of  water  in  the  corner, 

I  in  my  narrow  cot. 

You  were  sent  hither  unwillingly — 

And  so  was  I — 

—  for  dear  love's  sake 

— and  I,  for  liberty's. 

Perfumed  petals  of  rose: 

Bloom. 

Suffuse  your  fragrance  through  the  corridor. 

Your  sweetness 

Will  be  a  sign  of  beauty  in  this  bitter  place- 

And  so  will  I, 

And  so  will  I. 


Pale  petals  of  rose: 

Fade; 

But  you  shall  never  die: 

In  my  heart 

I  will  bear  the  loveliness  of  you  always. 

Perhaps  some 

Will  cherish  the  fragrance  that  is  in  the  depth 

of  me. 
In  beauty 

You  will  be  immortal, 
And  so  will  I, 
O!  so  may  I! 

Ah,  petals  of  rose: 

You  are  gone! 

Gone  from  the  prison-cell, 

Passed  from  the  earth,  as  I  shall  pass. 

Your  time  was  brief: 

How  brief  is  mine! 


49 


The  Star 

When  the  "screws"  had  made  their  last  round 
And  the  lights  in  the  cells  were  out, 
I  arose  and  peered  out  of  the  window, 
And  just  over  the  edge  of  the  prison-wall 
I  saw  a  tiny,  twinkling,  yellow  star, 
Furtively  winking  at  me — 
Like  the  eye  of  the  Infinite — 
Mischievously  happy 
Because  it  had  slipped  me  a  bit  of  joy 
Over  the  wall,  from  "the  outside." 


Dust  in  the  Road 

The  dust 

Is  a  yellow-grey  veil 

Over  the  limbs  of  the  wind. 

And  the  little  breeze  dons  it 

That  her  fleet  litheness 

And  the  whirling  torsions  of  her  sprite's  form 

May  be  apparent 

As  she  gaily  runs  down  the  road 

To  greet  us. 


Taps 

Out  of  the  night 

Up  from  the  serene  valley  of  the  Missouri 

Over  the  free  forested  Kansas  hills 

Come  notes  of  a  bugle — 

Mincing,  silver-slippered  steps  of  music. 


There  are  Moments  of  Release 

There  are  moments  of  release  from  this 

imprisonment: 
Sometimes,  while  marching  to  the  quarries 

where  we  work, 
I  have  a  feeling  of  freedom  from  the  sentries 

and  the  gang, 
As  if  alone  plunging  into  the  orange  vortex  of 

the  winter  dawn. 

There  are  moments  of  tranquillity  in  slavery: 
Sometimes,  while  working  on  the  rock-ledge, 
I  become  serene  and  sure  under  the  glow  of 

sunset, 

Imagining  me  couched 
On  the  green  valley-floor  outside  the  walls 
Where  shadows  from  the  crest  of  the  quarry 

dance 
Like  blue  fountains. 


53 


There  Will  Be  Days  of  Love  Released 

O,  there  will  be  days  of  love  released 
And  red  kisses  passed  in  the  light  of  the  morning 
And  walks  on  the  yellow  dunes,  white  limbs 
gleaming  in  the  sunlight   .    .    . 

Who  will  greet  me  at  The  Dawn — 

Who  will  there  be  to  take  my  hand  when  the 

gates  swing  out — 
Who  will  be  my  companion  in  the  brave 

journey  down  the  free  paths  of  the  world? 

For  us  there  will  be  the  tough  joy  of  the 

great  strife 
And  the  conscience  that  millions  make  the 

forward  stride  in  unison  with  us 
And  meaningful  handclasps  with  many 

comrades  in  thronged  thoroughfares. 

Closest  of  comrades,  who  will  you  be — and  do 

you  yearn  for  me  as  I  do  for  you— 
And  will  you  be  young  and  beautiful — and 

will  you  be  gay  and  strong — 
And  will  you  be  eager  for  the  toil  of  struggle — 

the  interludes  of  love  by  dunes  and  on 

wooded  hills? 


54 


Then  I  call  to  you,  I  bid  you  have  courage, 
And  I  bid  you  prepare  for  the  journey  of  love 

and  contest 
And  I  urge  you,  make  ready,  as  I  now 

prepare,  for  the  signal  of  endless 

adventures. 

For  there  will  be  no  end — 
There  will  be  no  tranquil  ceasing  of  the  strife — 
There  will  be  no  seclusion  ever  from  the  many, 
the  many  of  our  generation  who  press 
about  us,  press  forward  with  us, 

But  there  will  be  days  of  love  released 
And  comings  close  to  each  other  in  the 

glorious  thick  of  things 
Aye,  and  intense  satisfactions  in  the  nights 

that  are  noisy  and  dark  with  struggle. 


55 


Near  Freedom 

Night  fades i 

Cloud-murk  dissolves, 

The  dim  stars  reappear, 

Now  the  sky  is  pallid  grey  — 

And  now  a  tint  of  red  flows  in 

Like  blood  returning  to  the  lips  of  one  a-swoon. 

The  miracle  of  morn  impends  — 

Day,  that  was  dead,  re-lives. 

I  have  walked  the  night  through  sturdily, 
Nor  have  I  flinched  at  stumbling, 
Nor  have  I  faltered,  nor  cried  out, 
Nor  turned  aside  from  hideous  shapes. 
All  but  done  is  the  journey  through  the  dark 
And  I  who  set  gaily  forth  at  dusk  press  on, 
With  neither  bitterness  nor  daunt, 
Eager  to  greet  The  Dawn. 


En  Route 


The  Pebble  and  the  Wave 
A  fiance  Theme 

The  little  agate  pebble 

Has  been  on  the  yellow  sands 

For  long — oh,  ever  so  long. 

And  the  blue  white-feathered  wave 

On  the  roof  of  the  great  green  sea 

Has  been  yearning  for  it — and  yearning. 

Often — oh,  often — the  turquoise  wavelet 

Has  leaped  upon  the  amber  sands  toward  the 

agate  pebble, 

Flinging  out  its  sun-flashing  ribbons, 
Like  rainbow-scaled  nets, 
Striving  to  lap  it  up, 
To  lave  it  all  about  with  fluid  caress. 
And  sometime,  when  the  tide  surges, 
The  turquoise  wave  on  the  emerald  sea 
Will  enfold,  overwhelm,  embrace  the  small 

stone 

And  bear  it  off  to  its  lair  in  the  sea-depths, 
Swirling  and  swirling, 
Interwrapped,  over-rolling, 
Down  to  the  oozy  green  caverns, 
Forever. 


59 


When  the  Moon  Pales 

and  the  Daylight  Whitens  the  Shadow-caves 

Wherein  Love  Lies 

Nereid  of  the  river's  ripples, 
While  I  sought  amid  the  sedges 
For  a  reed-lute  for  my  song, 
Why  did  you  'rise  from  the  lilies  ? 
Every  wand  that  waved  and  whispered, 
Straight  I  seized  upon  to  pluck  it, 
Seemed  invested  of  your  graces, 
Seemed  your  swaying,  slender  person. 
When  I  moved  away,  rejecting, 
Formed  anew,  you  followed  after: 
As  a  dragon-fly  you  darted, 
Settled  on  my  bosom's  whiteness; 
Sweetly  murmured  with  your  wings, 
Like  a  perfumed  lady  fanning — 
Then  you  stung  me  into  passion!  .   .    . 
Lilith-like,  you  faded  from  me; 
Faded,  too,  my  melody; 
Faded  all  except  the  wavelets' 
Languorous  monotony, 


60 


Mother  and  Daughter 

White— 

Or  perhaps  blue;  not  too  lake-deep  nor  yet 

too  thin  like  summer-noon  horizons — 
Mauve  in  which  the  blue-white  smoke  of 

autumn  twilight  streams  in  errant 

waftures. 

Pale  pink 

Shell-like,  transparent, 

As  a  fragrant  fragile  old  rose-jar  that  my 

mother  received  from  her  mother  and 

the  mothers  before  her. 

These  two,  blending, 

Mantle  around  me  like  a  rare  scarf  of  spider- 
gauze  aged  in  the  purple  recesses  of 
some  Japanese  temple 

And  dyed  by  water-color  magenta. 


61 


Legend 

She  whom  the  genii  guard  and  groom  to 
become  the  priestess  of  their 
enchantments 

Is  the  sacred  child  of  the  sultan. 

Wherefore  she  sits  alone 

In  the  great  chamber  in  the  minaret  tower  of 
the  palace. 

And  the  walls  are  yellow  like  the  sun- 
showered  sands  of  the  desert 

And  the  ceiling  is  blue  like  the  sky. 

There  is  a  heap  of  rugs  upon  which — 

Embanked  with  silken  cushions  of  the  color  of 
many  peacock  plumes — 

Is  the  wise  maiden, 

The  diminutive  temple  of  her  divine  spirit 
hung  with  veils, 

Blue-green  like  skeins  of  moonlight. 


62 


She  sits  in  solitary  quietude 

And  her  brown  eyes  are  half  shut 

As  she  listens  to  inaudible  whispers  from 

invisible  presences. 
But  once — it  was  when  the  honey-sap  of  the 

myrtle  suffused  sweet  incense  through 

the  night — 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  upon  me, 
And  then  she  arose 
And  led  me  down  from  the  tower,  out  through 

the  court, 
Into  the  Garden  of  the  Soul's  Delight. 


The  Moustache 

Here  I  have  been  standing  on  the  street-curb 

for  a  half-hour, 

Listening  to  your  monotonous  small-talk. 
And  you  have  been  a  little  flattered  by  my 

seeming  interest — 
Unsuspecting  that  not  one  of  your  words  has 

reached  my  mind 
But  that  I  have  been  thrilled 
By  watching  the  sunlight 
Glint  through  your  baby- blue  eyes, 
And  your  fox-red  moustache. 


To  a  Timid  Maiden 

Very  beautiful  creature 

With  eyes  as  modest  as  the  wild  faun's  are 

reputed  to  be — 

You  will  learn,  when  you  are  older, 
That  possession  of  virginity 
Is  like  having  in  an  "electrically  lighted  house 
One  of  those  old-fashioned,  kerosene  parlor-lamps 
With  a  voluminous  pink-glass  globe: 
After  you  have  guarded  it  for  years 
Against  romping  children  and  other  household 

perils, 

Suddenly,  some  day,  you  will  ask: 
"Well,  what  good  is  the  old  thing,  anyway? 
Why  have  I  kept  it  so  long?" 


The  Fable  of  the  Hog 
That  Desired  to  be  Slaughtered 

I  wandered  into  the  shade  of  an  effluvious 

pigstye 

In  the  rear  of  an  odoriferous  packing  plant 
And  leaned  there, 
Watching  a  conscientious  Italian  husband  and 

a  young  negro 
Drive  a  large  herd  of  hogs  into  the 

si  augh  tering-house. 
Then,  after  a  time,  I  strolled  on  to  the  far  end 

of  the  pigstye 
And  saw  there  a  hog  that  had  got  left  behind 

the  others. 
The  hog  was  grunting  and  squealing  most 

distressfully 
And  was  trying  frantically  to  get  through  the 

gate 

And  scamper  along  with  the  others, 
To  be  slaughtered. 

Upon  witnessing  which,  I  turned  away 
To  consider  man 
And  the  well-known  "social  instinct." 


66 


Conscription 

She  took  his  soul  when  it  was  young 

To  be  her  own. 

She  held  him  close 

For  she  was  old  and  passion-wise. 

But  when  he  grew  he  found  another  love; 

And  she  was  young  and  dazzling-fair, 

And  love  for  her  was  an  intrepid  thing : 

Not  fully  realized  lust, 

But  passion  tempered  with  a  tenderness 

and  faith. 
But  she  who  was  old  and  passion- wise 

held  him  close; 
With  many  a  brutal  lure  and  constant 

cruel  compulsion, 
She  made  him  victim  to  the  madness 

of  her  lust ; 

With  bleeding  fingers,  tearing  teeth, 
She  clutched  him  jealously — 
Until,  at  last,  worn  of  her  own  insanity, 
She  sank  to  death; 
Then  he,  with  discolored  flesh  and 

running  wounds, 
Went  to  his  pure,  bright  love 
Who,  though  she  loved  him,  suffered. 


The  Fireman:  Charcoal  Sketch 

Look  at  the  fireman  cleaning  the  grates, 
With  rapid  pulls  and  pushes  of  the  long  iron 
rod  breaking  up  the  clinkers  in  the 
boiler-furnace: 

The  great  line  of  his  body  formed  thus — 
Starting  at  the  left  foot,  planted  forward, 
Sweeping  upward  through  the  leg, 
Crescent-curving  along  the  shadowed  furrow 

of  his  spine, 
Extended  forward  in  his  left  arm,  pushing 

the  tool; 

This  last  line  echoed  in  the  right  elbow,  the 
impending  thrust  shown  in  the  upward 
and  half-forward  poise  of  the  arm; 
The  forward  trend  of  the  figure  accentuated 
by  the  half-hidden  head,  in  which  the 
line  of  the  back  terminates  and  is 
joined  to  the  line  of  the  arms; 


68 


The  whole  reinforced,  made  stable,  by  the 

staunch  brace  of  the  right  leg,  its  line 
moving  rhythmically  into  that  of  the 
spine; 

And  all  these  lines  shown  where  light  meets 
shadow  on  the  curved  surface  of  the 
body  and  the  wrinkles  of  the  grimy 
clothes, 

And  all  in  grays  and  blacks— 

The  smutty  laborer,  his  face  glowing,  glistening 
with  sweat  before  the  open  fire-box, 

The  sooty  boilers  bulking  high  above, 

The  coal  heap  with  its  myriad  glittering  facets 
behind, 

And  all  within  the  shadowy  shed-like 
boiler-room. 


En  Route 

From  Manhattan  half-way  across  America 

speeding, 
Away  from  the  lofty  spectacle-city  of  the 

earth, 

Out  of  the  rich  historic  Empire  State, 
Across  Ohio,  Michigan,  Indiana,  southern 

Illinois, 
Over  the  vast  wrinkled  map  swerving  and 

roaring  in  haste, 
By  day  the  autumn-colored  Palisades,  the 

lakes  Erie,  Huron,  Michigan  swiftly 

glimpsing, 
At  night  from  my  berth  the  blinking-eyed 

cities  rushing  through 
And  passing  enigmatic  lights  in  the  wilderness 

of  dark, 
Chicago  approaching — the  sprawling 

lake-blown  working- town — 
To  your  arms,  my  lover,  where  you  lie  in 

sickness! 


70 


And  what  is  the  long  trip  worth 

Except  you  receive  me  with  passionate  kisses 

and  tears  on  your  cheek  as  I  lay  my 

face  to  yours  ? 
And  what  is  the  return  worth  after  the  long 

departure 
Except,  coming  together  again,  we  have 

learned  to  be  closer  than  ever? 


The  Fourth  Book 
from 


Number  ^£~  of  two  hundred  and 
eighty  copies  on  Kelmscott  hand- 
made paper,  printed  from  type  on 
a  hand  press  at  14  West  Washing- 
ton Street^  Chicago.  Composition, 
lettering,  and  presswork  by  Will 
Ransom,  assisted  by  Edmond  A. 
Hunt,  who  also  designed  and  cut 
the  linoleum  blocks  for  the  jacket 
decoration.  Binding  by  Anthony 
Fatfer.  Printing  finished 
November  21 1922. 


The  Series  of  First  Volumes 

No.  /—OPEN  SHUTTERS  by  Oliver  Jenkins. 
245  copies  on  Whatman  hand-made  paper. 
Published  March  27  1922. 

No.  2— STAR  POLLEN  by  Power  Dal  ton.  259 
copies  on  Italian  hand-made  paper.  Pub- 
lished August  14  1922. 

No.  3— ORIOLES  AND  BLACKBIRDS  by  Hi 
Simons.  280  copies  on  Kelmscott  hand- 
made paper.  Published  December  4  1922. 


\ 


Nv  j 


ORIOLES  £P 

BLACKBIRDS 
HI*SIMONS* 


. 


M157294 


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